


Words

by satin_doll



Series: Dark Company [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Another of Sherlock's odd friends, F/M, Might make more sense if you've read at least the first story in the series!, Part 3 of the Dark Company series, Romance, Sherlock gets a little help from a friend, Sherlock gives Molly little gifts, Sherlock takes the next step, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-13 22:41:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15374985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satin_doll/pseuds/satin_doll
Summary: Sherlock leaves another gift for Molly.





	Words

**Author's Note:**

  * For [glitterkitty4ever](https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitterkitty4ever/gifts), [OhAine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhAine/gifts).



> For Lorianna, with hugs and kitty kisses. 
> 
> And for OhAine, as always, with apologies for being absent lately. Life is just...weird.

The slightly pudgy man with the thinning ginger curls stood at the window of his attic loft and gazed out at the city. The twinkling lights never completely dimmed, though they were not quite as numerous at four in the morning as they were at midnight. When the soft tapping sounded at his door, he was not surprised. 

“Come in, Sherlock,” he said, his fox grin warm and welcoming as he let the visitor in. “I’ve been expecting you.”

Sherlock stepped into the sparsely furnished but cosy flat, pulling off his gloves. He shook hands with his host and then plopped himself down in the cushy club chair that was reserved for infrequent visitors. His host seated himself in his own comfortable chair and grinned again. 

“What do you need?” Their conversations were always this way, direct and immediately to the point. 

Sherlock let his gaze drift around the room, taking note of the new papers adorning the wall above the desk, the new stack of books next to the bookcase that had yet to be pored over and then gently shelved. 

“A gift. For a...friend.” 

Mr. P nodded his understanding. He knew about Sherlock’s “friend”, of course; they all did. He reached for his pipe, packed and waiting on the table beside his chair, and lit it, puffing thoughtfully. 

“Long or short?”

Sherlock stared into his friend’s bright blue eyes, his lips quirking into a half smile. 

“Short will do.”

Mr. P chuckled and nodded again. Then he rose and went to his desk and settled himself into the chair. He held his fingers briefly above the keys of the old fashioned typewriter and then began tapping the keys. The first few pages were yanked from the machine and crumpled and tossed on the floor. He paused and stared for a moment at the wall, then blinked and murmured a few words to himself before beginning to type again. This page he pulled gently from the typewriter and carefully folded before rising and taking the paper to Sherlock. He looked down at his friend for a moment, his bright gaze softening into fondness and concern.

“Are you sure about this?”

Sherlock glanced up and blinked his surprise at the question, gave a brief nod. 

“It’s time.”

Mr. P sighed and turned away, hiding his relief and the surge of joy coursing through him. _Yes, my dear friend, it certainly is time. Time for you to get on with things and be happy._

A little tea and some biscuits, a few more words, and Sherlock was out the door. 

The slightly pudgy man with the thinning ginger curls stood at the window and watched his friend vanish down the street before returning his gaze to the lights again. The words were filling his heart and he knew there would be no sleep for quite a while now. He was a poet, and the words ruled his world.

*****

Sherlock stood staring up at the window, his mind filled with images. He always did this, stood staring at that window before he entered, picturing her sleeping. He could almost hear her soft breathing, feel the motion of the bed as she turned. Sometimes he imagined her murmuring in her sleep, dreaming. 

_What does she dream about? Who is she speaking to in her dreams?_

He fingered the paper tucked into his pocket, drew it out and looked at the folded page. 

He hadn’t read it yet. 

He hesitated, then slowly unfolded it. The light was too dim to read the words, there in the shadows where he usually stood, so he reached into his pocket again and took out the small pen light, flicked it on and held the end of it in his mouth, the light playing over the creamy white paper. 

He laughed softly to himself, refolded the page and slipped it back into his pocket, along with the pen light. Then he made his way to the door and let himself in.

*****

Molly woke from her dream with a start and sat up, blinking. She fully expected to see Sherlock standing at the foot of the bed. The dream had been that realistic. 

He had been bending over her, watching her sleep, had brushed a strand of hair back from her face. Then he had whispered something, words she couldn’t make out, and had leaned down and kissed her cheek. She closed her eyes and tried to go back into the dream, to recapture the warmth and delicate tenderness of it. 

But it was gone. 

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, glanced at the clock. It was almost time to get up anyway. She shut off the alarm and stood, still musing about the dream. After a trip to the bathroom, she headed for the kitchen. Coffee, she decided. This was definitely a coffee morning. 

When she flicked on the light, her eyes were immediately drawn to the kettle and she gave a little gasp. There was a piece of paper leaning against it.

_He HAD been there!_

She wasn’t foolish enough to hope that the dream had been more than a dream, but...maybe she had somehow sensed his presence in the house and it had seeped into her subconscious mind…

She slowly walked to the kettle and picked up the paper, slid her fingers along the folded edge. She held it to her nose and sniffed. It smelled like him. She grinned and opened the single page and read. 

Then she read it again. And again. And again, this time her eyes filling with tears, her heart pounding. 

It was many long minutes before she could put the paper down and fill the kettle. She wiped her eyes and sat at the table while the kettle boiled and coffee was all but forgotten.

The rest of the morning went by in a fog. She did everything mechanically, without thought, somehow making it through without making any major mistakes. The paper was tucked in her pocket. 

It was almost noon before he showed up, casually shoving through the door to the lab, his eyes going directly to hers.

Molly watched as he tugged off his gloves, shrugged out of his coat, laid both on the bench top. He walked to her slowly, his eyes searching her face. Her hand slid to her pocket and gently pressed the paper against her thigh. 

Sherlock stopped in front of her, his eyes never leaving hers, his mouth quirked in a half-smile. 

“Hello,” he said softly. Just that. Just...hello.

Molly took a step forward and leaned her head against his chest. Then she looked up at him and said, just as softly, “Hello.”

Sherlock kissed her forehead, stroked her cheek with one finger. 

“We need to talk.”

*****

In the days to come, the paper would become worn and tattered, but would never leave her bedside table. The words on it would be indelibly etched in her mind, serving as a reminder, a goad, and a guide through their relationship from then on.

_How is it that we say so much_

_In our first glance of greeting,_

_Yet our words sit on our tongues_

_Like tiny, frozen birds?_

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> With much love and thanks to my own Mr. P, who taught me so much and who knew exactly why I had to write.


End file.
